A Holmes Heart
by ConsultingTimeLordIn221B
Summary: A series of one-shots that chronicle significant moments in Sherlock's life. I'm open to suggestions! xx Rated M for mature themes.
1. Redbeard

**A/N:** Hi guys! If any of you are still here, you're probably wondering where I've been for all this time! I apologize because I have no true excuse for my absence other than disinterest in continuing to write my other stories. I also apologize for all the messages I received asking me to continue certain stories but never responding and doing just that. Like I said, times have changed and I write more for myself now. I will always love fanfiction though, for it is the website that introduced me to writing stories and I attribute it to my desire to pursue a career in writing.

Anyway, I'm rambling and I'm not quite sure anyone is reading this. This is an idea I thought up the other day that's been nagging me to write. Hopefully it sees the light of day and you all enjoy it even though it is not Harry Potter! Thanks xx

**A Holmes Heart**

By RosexScorpius4ever

Chapter 1 – Redbeard

It was the summer of 1987. The sun took constant refuge behind the densely clouded sky as though it knew of what was to come. The only sounds were of nature and adolescence.

In the forest ran a boy. He was wiry in build and short for his age. He was still young enough for some innocence to be acceptable. Naivety as well, but that would change in due time.

"Come Redbeard!" he cried, running the length of the river. "We've got deductions to make!"

After him scampered an old dog, auburn in color. The dog was versatile for his age and for the most part, was able to keep up with the boy. Occasionally, he would stop to lap up some water from the river.

The boy, noticing the dog's hesitance in venturing deeper into the forest, halted and got down on his knees.

"Here, Redbeard! Here, boy!" he called, slapping his knees gently. "Come, boy!"

The dog scampered over and began to lovingly lick the boy's face. The boy laughed with glee.

"Good boy, Redbeard. Good boy!"

He continued to pet and stroke the dog, forgetting himself and his desired to reach the heart of the forest. He laughed at the dog's playful antics.

"See, boy? There's nothing wrong with you!" said the boy, adoringly. "Mycroft's just is trying to be a spoilsport. He's –"

"WILLIAM SHERLOCK SCOTT HOLMES!"

The boy grimaced visibly. No one called him by his full name. No one at all. He purposefully referred to himself as Sherlock because it was different, like his brother, who he admired. William was such a drab name anyways. There were plenty of Williams and he was like none of them.

"SHERLOCK!"

He grunted, getting to his feet and brushing off his trousers.

"Come Redbeard, we'd best get back before mummy loses it."

The two companions wandered side-by-side back to the estate. Sherlock occasionally would reach out to stroke him, only to notice that the dog had fallen behind. When this happened he would urge him forward with a slight bump to the rear end.

He was being watched.

Although he could not see his face, Sherlock was aware of his brother's gaze. Mycroft, seven years his senior, was Sherlock's fifteen-year-old brother. Back from boarding school for the holidays, the boy spent most of his time in his room writing "important" letters to "significant people."

_Government people_, Sherlock had deduced. Why else would his brother spend time on his archaic typewriter, perfecting letters on stationary that he had demanded access to his mother's study for. It was no secret that his brother desired to work for the British Government once he was of age.

Sherlock, on the other hand, went through many phases of what he wished to be, though none of that was consequential at the moment. Mycroft's eyes were still trained on him and Sherlock realized he was the reason mummy had called him back. As to _why_ he was being called back, well he had not gotten so far with his deductions yet.

He walked into the parlor with Redbeard and saw both of his parents standing there. The pair of them wore identical forlorn expressions.

"Where have you been, mister?" demanded his mother.

"The forest," Sherlock answered readily, an eyebrow arched. "I believe that's allowed."

"Don't be smart, young man," his father said. His face was kind but his tone was stern, not an all-together great combination for an authoritative figure.

Sherlock bit his tongue. Mycroft's voice rang in his mind.

_Don't be smart, Sherlock. I'm the smart one_.

"Yes, father."

He waited for his parents to say something. When his father did not, he simply remained silent and observed his mother instead.

His mother's palms had slight indentations on them, indicating that her nails had been digging into them. She was anxious. Why was she anxious?

He observed her eyes. Exasperation with an under-bearing trace of melancholy. Her eyes drifted to Redbeard. Sherlock's blood ran cold.

"MYCROFT!" he yelled. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"

He knew his brother was in earshot. He was merely behind the wall adjacent to the stairwell, given the shadow that was present on the wooden floor. There was really no need to shout but before his mother could tell him so, Mycroft appeared.

"Not a thing, brother mine," Mycroft drawled, slinking down the staircase. "I merely observed as an unbiased party does."

Sherlock could feel his blood boiling.

"There is nothing wrong with Redbeard!" he said through gritted teeth, trying and failing to maintain a level voice.

"Au contraire, brother mine." Sherlock loathed when Mycroft called him that. "You cannot honestly tell me that he is in top condition."

It was true. Redbeard was growing old but he was not failing in the way Mycroft suggested. Sure, he moved slower than he used to but he still _could_ move. His eyesight might be a bit foggy from all of the cataracts but he could still see. He was no worse for wear than any elderly human.

"He's fine," Sherlock demanded. He knelt down next to the weary dog and put his forehead against the dog's own. Redbeard licked the boy's nose lovingly. "Good boy, Redbeard. See? Fine. He still knows who I am."

"Regardless," his mother said. "It's time, dear."

_Time_. It seemed to stop for Sherlock in that moment. Time was slowing down and speeding up simultaneously. He needed more of it but he could not move.

"No," Sherlock croaked, very much aware that he was losing control of the situation. If he ever had been in control…

He felt his father's hand on his shoulder and blinked rapidly. He would not… he would not in front of his brother…

Mycroft's eyes were still trained on him. The expressionless mask that he had perfected over the years was in place. To Sherlock though he looked sinister. This was not the brother who taught Sherlock the science of deduction. This was not the brother who taught him how to identify a man's occupation, marital status, and wealth based on his gait.

This was the enemy.

_His mortal enemy_.

This was the person who thought Sherlock to be an idiot for most of his life. There was not much to go on after all, it's not as though they had friends. This was also the person who convinced Sherlock of his own stupidity for the majority of his life.

This was…

Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock Holmes' mortal enemy.

And Redbeard was the closest thing the young boy had to a friend. The only creature in this world that did not shy away from Sherlock. He was his pressure point. His weak spot. The closest thing Sherlock felt he could love and be loved by in return.

And now he was being taken away from him.

And now he was gone. Gone forever, laid to rest. Sherlock had fought it. He fought it with all that he had. He argued that if they laid Redbeard to rest, he ought to be laid to rest with him. He had a go at Mycroft when his brother told him that he was being illogical. Nothing had worked. Redbeard was gone.

And, in many ways, so was Sherlock.

**A/N:** I hope you liked it. I'm not sure how I feel about it, to be honest. I think I will make this story a series of one-shots. Feel free to review below with moments that you'd like to see! I already have one other in mind and I could use some perspective. Thanks and regardless of whether you have something you'd like to see, please leave a review!


	2. The First Case

**A/N:** Thank you to hawthorn-vinewood394, LivinginaFairytale2t11, and CouldbeDangerous221 for your reviews on the first chapter! Your support means a lot!

Aside: As I'm sure you noticed, I've changed my URL! The previous one was RosexScorpius4ever if you're confused.

**A Holmes Heart**

By ConsultingTimeLordIn221B

Chapter 2 – The First Case

After the summer of 1987, Sherlock's life changed drastically. No longer an innocent schoolboy, he retreated within himself. No one could shatter the cold exterior he built once his faithful companion was gone. Eventually, his parents acquiesced and it was this action that solidified his opinion that he was better off alone.

It was 1989 and he was now ten-years-old. Walking through central London, like he was prone to doing these days, Sherlock stumbled upon a peculiar scene. It was one that immediately struck his interest based on its many eccentricities.

Given his significant height difference, he was able to slip into the crowd of adults without much notice. The air around him was buzzing.

"Said he drowned –"

"Young boy –"

"Such a shame…"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. All these voices were aggravating. Turning it all off like he had become accustomed to, he focused on what he could gather from the limited evidence provided.

The area was taped off so Scotland Yard was already there.

There must have been an accident. But the surrounding people had troubled expressions. It was more than an accident. There was a death. Suspected murder based on the scared expressions of many.

_It happened in a pool_ he deduced. There were children standing a short distance away, their hair dripping and with towels wrapped around their bodies. A school trip to the pool. They were crying. So it must have been one of their friends. A friend their age so a teenager as well. Why else would adults be murmuring how much of a "shame" the circumstances were?

The body was being wheeled out on a gurney now. A somber woman followed the procession.

_His mother? No, not his mother_ Sherlock concluded. _Too detached, she would be weepy. Probably the supervisor of the trip_.

He continued to observe impatiently. All that was visible of the boy were his feet. They were bare and crusting. The boy had eczema. He had read about the signs in one of his medical books and crusting, as well as inflammation, was a known signature of the disease.

His deduction was confirmed when he looked once more at the woman. In her hands were the boys' possessions. She held his change of clothes, presumably stored away while he swam, his cellular, and his medication. But no shoes.

Pushing through, he reached the front of the congregation just as one of Scotland Yard's own exited the building. He reached out and tapped the man. The man turned.

"Yes?" he said, impatiently.

"Where are you taking the boy?" asked Sherlock.

"To the morgue," the man said, suspiciously. "Who are you?"

"A former classmate," Sherlock lied, smoothly. "We were – close." To appear more convincing, he averted his eyes momentarily. He heard the man sigh.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yes, well he was a year above me but we were close." He added a sniff for good measure before looking up. "Where are his shoes?"

The man looked baffled by the sudden change in demeanor.

"His –?"

"Yes, his shoes," said Sherlock with a touch of impatience. "They didn't run off on their own, did they?"

The man scrutinized Sherlock disapprovingly.

"What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't." The man glared at Sherlock.

"Go home, young man. This is no place for a young boy to be."

"I'm not a boy," said Sherlock sharply, but the man had already resumed walking. "And I will figure this out!"

He did formulate his own theories. The shoes were missing, that was without a doubt a sign. Shoes do not just up-and-leave without help.

So he investigated more about the circumstances surrounding the boy's death. After doing some research, he discovered that this boy, who went by the name of Carl Powers, was on a school trip to the London pool when the death occurred. The rest of the information was suspicious.

How, for instance, could a talented athlete in acceptable physical condition drown? Sherlock supposed that he could have had a stroke or something of the sort but the official autopsy report concluded no signs of such an event. In fact, the autopsy report was inconclusive on all counts, leading Scotland Yard to the conclusion that this was a mere accident. This could not have been so simple though.

From what he gathered, Powers was a prat. A typical schoolboy who boasted and was too big for his britches. He would have had enemies. But who was powerful enough and sinister enough to murder an eleven-year-old boy and then not own up to it out of guilt?

Much to Sherlock's regret, he decided to bring these theories to Scotland Yard. To his immense chagrin, he was received with laughs.

"You're just a boy!" exclaimed the same man he spoke to on that first day. "A mere boy of what – seven?"

"Ten," snapped Sherlock. "And I'm not 'just a boy'. I know that Carl Powers' death is suspicious! You haven't even located his shoes!"

"And what relevance do his shoes have?" snorted another man. "The parents aren't fussed about their absence. Said the boy hadn't even had them for long."

"He had eczema," explained Sherlock impatiently. "It was obvious from the bottom of his feet. There could have been –"

"Enough," said the original man. "The case is closed and the family is accepting it. The boy simply _drowned_. Kids not used to swimming in such deep pools do that."

"Yes, I'm sure a talented athlete like Carl Powers just panicked at the first sign of water deeper than a meter," said Sherlock sarcastically. The men frowned at him.

"Go home, Mister Holmes," sighed the original man, having drawn the name out of Sherlock earlier. "Or I'll be forced to call your parents."

Disbelieving of the sheer stupidity of Scotland Yard, Sherlock stormed out of the precinct and back onto the streets of London.

_Scotland Yard_ he scoffed. _What a pathetic excuse for a police force_.

One thing to him was certain though. Even if he could not make a convincing argument for Scotland Yard on the Carl Powers case, this had opened his eyes. The London police force was out of their depth and, above all else, moronic. The dead needed a better chance of achieving justice than Scotland Yard could provide.

But Sherlock was not focused so much on justice as he was on answers. People deserved answers and so help him, he would be the one to give them those answers if no one else would.

**A/N:** How do you like this one? I recently re-watched series 1 and thought this would be an interesting moment to touch-upon. As always, feedback is MUCH appreciated and your reviews are what keep me writing! xx


	3. Part 1: The Wanderer

**A/N:** Please feel free to leave suggestions with moments you would like me to touch upon that may have been mentioned in passing in any of the episodes! As always, please review! xx

**A Holmes Heart**

By ConsultingTimeLordIn221B

Chapter 3 – Part 1: The Wanderer

**1995**

Sherlock loathed monotony. Whenever he found himself in danger of drifting into a state of compliance, the streets of London would awaken his soul.

From a young age, Sherlock was comfortable escaping the incessant silence that was the country and taking refuge in the city. Mycroft, who traveled into the city on a daily basis for work, failed to see the appeal of the smog-infested city, but it was that very aspect of London that sucked Sherlock in before breathing him out.

His mother, of course, worried.

"Where are you going?" Violet demanded one evening.

"Out," replied Sherlock, shortly.

"It's nearly midnight!" she exclaimed. "Siger, say something."

Siger Holmes looked up from his newspaper and gazed at his youngest son mildly. He never quite knew how to handle him. Sherlock already had his overcoat on.

"She worries, you know," Siger stated simply, as though Violet was not there. She looked at her husband indignantly.

"Don't wait up," was all Sherlock said in response. He left the estate without another word.

Smoke billowed down the eerie streets of London that Sherlock was accustomed to wandering. His feet traced the paths that they had paced upon many a-time when a case was particularly challenging. He came to the conclusion that he did his best deductions whilst undisturbed on these walks.

Like most teenagers, Sherlock had his usual haunts. Unlike most teenagers, he did not bring a girl, or any friends, there for that matter. His solitude set him apart from the other teenagers drifting down the street.

"Got any money?" grunted a lump on the sidewalk.

Sherlock glanced out of the corner of his eye.

_Ring on right hand. Recently divorced. Drug problem_.

"Sorry, no," replied Sherlock flatly. "I saw an adolescent selling two blocks back from where I came from. You could probably get by cheap."

The man grunted again, this time in appreciation, and scuttled off into the night. Sherlock could smell the whiskey and piss odor that lingered. He continued on his way.

"Got any money?" another bloke up ahead asked.

Sherlock looked up irritably again. He was met with a familiar face this time.

"What for this time, Parsons?" sneered the brooding teenager. "Looking to get high or drunk?"

"Maybe both," smirked the boy named Parsons. "What's it to you, Holmes?"

"Well, you did just request my money for your addiction."

"Like you don't have an addiction of your own, freak. We all see the way you hunch over those "cases" in the back of the school when you think no one's around to 'lower the IQ.'"

Parsons, of course, was referring to the days after college when Sherlock was looking at murder files he had scrounged up. Naturally, the exact nature of his "cases" were not known because there would be a public outcry as to how a "mere teenager" got hold of what escapes the knowledge of the general public of being "public record". No one saw it that way.

"Don't discuss the circumstances you will never understand, Parsons." After a second he added. "I haven't any money."

He had begun walking away when the same voice called out to him again.

"How about a joint then?"

He halted.

"Do I look like the type?"

"Who would have one? No," conceded Parsons. "Who would need one? Hell, yes."

His mind was buzzing at the moment. Normally, at this point it would be clear to think only of his case but something was holding him back.

"Are you offering?" snorted Sherlock.

"Only if you do my work for a month."

"As if they would think it's your own. It would take considerable effort on my part to lower my standards to your level."

Parsons narrowed his eyes at the former.

"Do you want one or not?"

"What's in it for you?"

"Maybe I'd get a kick out of seeing you high. Maybe I don't think you're that bad."

"Definitely the former." Regardless, Sherlock backtracked. He held out a hand. Parsons smiled devilishly.

A/N: Sorry for the long gap in updates. Please review!


	4. Part 2: The Discovery

**A/N:** Thanks to consultingat221b for the review on the last chapter! Note: I think from here on in I will be changing the rating of the story since it deals with more mature themes.

Additionally, this chapter has an alternate POV to those in past chapters.

**A Holmes Heart**

By ConsultingTimeLordIn221B

Chapter 4 – Part 2: The Discovery

It was 4am. Irritable knocks and muffled curses reverberated in the East wing of the Holmes estate. Another curse.

"Open the door, Sherlock," growled Mycroft. "Four in the blooding morning is no time to be composing."

The dulcet violin melody that was echoing throughout the entire corridor continued as if there had been no interruption. Mycroft let out a cry of frustration. He had been appealing to his wayward younger brother for the best of five minutes.

"Some of us have _work_ tomorrow, Sherlock. For once, could you consider someone other than yourself?" No reply. "Bloody hell, I'm coming in."

This was his absolute last resort. Sherlock loathed when others entered his living quarters. The only one he occasionally tolerated was his mother. But only if she gave advanced notice. His father knew better than to enter unannounced and Mycroft… well, if Mycroft dared enter he could expect the hardest object in his brother's vicinity to become projectile.

He tried to turn the doorknob. Locked. He took a deep breath.

"Sherlock, if you don't unlock this door I'm going to knock it in myself."

If the situation was not so aggravating, he may have even found it humorous. Mycroft was a slight man in his early twenties who barely weighed eleven stone.

Still no response.

Bracing himself, he backed up to the wall across from the door. Then, with more agility than he thought himself capable of, he ran at the door and slammed into it shoulder-first. It took him three tries before he succeeded.

Grimacing in pain, he walked into the room of his younger brother. As his eyes grew accustomed to the significantly darker room, he noticed one important thing.

His brother was not there. It had been a recording.

Turning off the recording, he continued to look around and as he did, the more unnerved he became.

Used syringes and bags containing a multitude of drugs littered the floor. Beside them lay used joints that his brother, presumably in a reckless state, had neglected to dispose of properly. Mycroft let out an inaudible groan.

He should have seen the signs. Looking back, it was difficult to miss. While his brother was aloof and seldom around his company, he had, on several occasions, been in his presence over the past year. On those few occasions, he had noticed a considerable difference in his brother's appearance – first and foremost, the red rings around his eyes and his sudden preference of long-sleeve shirts. He had not harped on the matter though, too irritated by the incessant drawl that his brother was prone to adapting when in Mycroft's presence.

"Blimey, Sherlock." He looked out the window. How had he escaped?

Leaning out the window into the brisk night air, he saw no means of escape other than a lone drain pipe that ran down the back of the estate. The idea of his brother scaling their home was entirely preposterous to the older Holmes, but Mycroft never did fancy getting "down and dirty."

"This is madness," Mycroft muttered, as he stormed out of the room. He closed the door behind him.

Returning to his room, he grabbed his mobile off of his desk. He stared at the device in his hand. Who was he to ring? Scotland Yard? He certainly could not alert his parents. His mother would panic and have an episode that would incapacitate her for days on end.

_Bloody Sherlock never thinking of anyone but himself_ thought Mycroft bitterly. _Let alone their aging mother's health_.

Deciding he had no alternative, for he was not about to go out wandering the city alleyways (he knew they were his brother's usual haunts) in the early morning, he phoned Scotland Yard.

"He's not going to be charged for this, is he?"

"No," sighed the detective. "But I'd keep an eye on this one. He looks worse for wear and wasn't exactly wandering the best parts of the city."

"Yes, I understand," replied Mycroft curtly. Then after a moments pause added, "Thank you, Detective Inspector Lestrade."

The young DI nodded curtly. He paid a cursory glance at the younger Holmes who was slumped on a chair in the parlour.

"Have a good evening, Mr. Holmes." With a final glance at both Holmes boys, the DI and his two men exited the parlour and returned to their squad car. Mycroft was left alone.

Looking at his younger brother, he saw all and more than the DI had observed. His brother was going down a dangerous path. A path that Mycroft feared, against his better judgment, knew no return.

**A/N:** How'd you like the different POV? I thought it would be an interesting twist. Let me know if you'd like more of it and please review!


	5. East Wind

**A/N:** Fair warning – this story will not necessarily go in a sequential order of events. For instance, this chapter is something I thought of moments before I wrote this note and obviously, it happened much earlier than the previous one. Thank you for the continued support of this story!

**A Holmes Heart**

By ConsultingTimeLordIn221B

Chapter 5 – East Wind

**1985**

"Myke! Myke!"

There was an exasperated sigh.

"Myke!"

No response.

The young boy of six continued to knock eagerly on his brother's door. He would not be turned away. Not this time.

"Sherlock, dear, what on Earth are you doing?"

The boy turned around and looked up at his mother with big eyes.

"I want to play with Myke, mummy," he replied, calmly.

His mother walked briskly over to the door and slammed on it.

"_What_?"

"Play with your brother, Myke."

"That is _not_ my name."

"I won't ask you again."

"That would imply you asked before," the boy on the other side of the door muttered.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing, mother."

Mrs. Holmes winked at her youngest son and walked off. Bouncing eagerly on the balls of his feet, Sherlock waited for his elder brother Mycroft to open his bedroom door.

There was a click.

"What do you want?" snapped Mycroft.

"I want to play deductions!"

The thirteen-year-old boy sighed.

"Can't you play with Redbeard?"

"Redbeard can't speak," replied the younger Holmes drily. Mycroft was not amused.

"Don't be smart, Sherlock. I'm the smart one."

Sherlock looked at the floor sullenly. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Come in."

Sherlock looked up in surprise. He was never invited into his brother's room. It was off-limits for all, including their mother. Oftentimes, Sherlock wondered what his brother could possibly be doing behind closed doors. He would hear the typewriter being clicked away at during all hours of the night, which led to the correct assumption that his brother suffered from the same bout of insomnia that Sherlock did.

Eagerly, Sherlock walked into the room of his elder brother.

It was not much different from his, save the papers scattered everywhere for numerous internships and projects that Mycroft worked on.

"Don't touch anything," instructed Mycroft, eyeing Sherlock as though he was a bull in a china shop.

Under his brother's watchful gaze, Sherlock was afraid that he would breathe the wrong way. He looked around.

"Don't you get bored in here?"

"No," replied Mycroft shortly. "Never mind the papers."

"Shall we play then?"

"I've got a better idea. How about I tell you a story?"

Sherlock felt slightly uneasy. The look in his brother's eyes did not look nice, though when did it? Nevertheless, his brother never offered to tell him stories so he was not going to pass up the opportunity. He nodded.

"Sit."

Sherlock looked around and ungraciously dropped himself onto the floor. Mycroft opted for his bed where he sat straight-backed and rigid.

"Have you heard of the story of the East Wind?"

Sherlock shook his head so Mycroft continued.

"The East Wind is a terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path," said Mycroft in a hushed voice. "Long ago, it is said, that the wind brought the locusts and in its journey, the East Wind seeks out the unworthy."

Mycroft checked to see if he had his brother's full attention. To his amusement, Sherlock was hanging onto his every word.

"And what does it do to the unworthy?" whispered Sherlock.

"It plucks them from the Earth," replied Mycroft, "and takes them to where no man can escape."

"It won't take me," said Sherlock certainly. He had doubt in his eyes though.

"I wouldn't be too certain," taunted Mycroft.

"I'm not unworthy!"

"Are you?"

"I'm not!"

Mycroft stood up and began pacing around Sherlock. His brother twisted around as Mycroft walked and tried to keep Mycroft in his line of sight.

"It takes us all in the end," murmured Mycroft, making Sherlock strain to hear him. "It simply encounters the unworthy first. You're an insolent boy, brother mine. Who's to say that it won't –"

"It won't get me!"

"Or… _will it_?" He whispered the last part directly in his brother's ear, causing the latter to jump in fright and flee from the room.

Laughing to himself, he locked the door after his brother and resumed his work, shuffling his papers breezily.

**A/N:** What did you think? I hope I did the story justice; I came across the scene on Tumblr and thought I'd experiment. Please review!


	6. A Pirate's Life

A Holmes Heart

By ConsultingTimeLordIn221B

Chapter 6 – A Pirate's Life

**1984**

"No."

"You will."

"I will not."

"Yes, you will Myke."

"How many times must I remind you? That is _not_ my name."

"I am your mother, I can call you whatever I see fit," said Mrs. Holmes sternly. "Siger, say something."

Mr. Holmes sighed in exasperation, putting his reading glasses atop his head.

"Do as your mother says," he said simply, before returning to reading.

Mycroft glared at the top of his father's head.

"He's old enough."

"He's _five_, Mycroft."

"Old enough," stated Mycroft stubbornly. "I will not be seen trick-or-treating with my kid brother."

"You are going, end of discussion." His mother left the room with her laundry basket. Mycroft glowered at her retreating figure.

"Why don't you give your mother a rest?" suggested Siger Holmes. "Humour your brother. Halloween only comes once a year."

"He's much too old for such frivolous holidays."

"He's five-years-old."

"With the intellect to act older than his age if he so chose," sniped the older Holmes boy. "But I suppose I have no choice in the matter."

Siger Holmes made a noise of assent. The conversation was over.

"You are not to leave my sight tonight," instructed Mycroft only a week later. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Myke."

"Mycroft. My name is Mycroft."

"Yes, Mycroft."

The two Holmes boys walked through town. They had taken a car to get there given that the location of the Estate was set back from the rest of civilization.

"Do. Not. Embarrass. Me," hissed Mycroft as they approached the first house.

He waited for a sign of acknowledgement from his younger brother but it never came. The door opened.

"Ahoy!" greeted Sherlock with a toothy grin.

Mycroft paled.

"Err… yes… trick or treat," said the older Holmes, his face flushed.

The woman at the door smiled, crouching down to be eye-level with Sherlock.

"Well, aren't you a cute pirate!"

"Arrr!"

If the ground could open up beneath him, Mycroft would have been swallowed up.

"Here you go," said the woman kindly. "Have a nice night."

Sherlock went to reply again but Mycroft cut him off.

"Thank you, you as well," he said, sharply. "Come along, brother."

The door closed and they continued on their way.

It was going to be a long night.

**A/N:** So this is a bit shorter but I hope you like it! It occurred to me that this HAD to be done given that Mycroft said in A Scandal In Belgravia that Sherlock wanted to be a pirate when he was younger. Please review!


End file.
